by V. M. Burns
Sebastian came to, and apart from a large red bump on the center of his head that looked like a doorknob, he seemed otherwise unharmed. He left in a separate ambulance.
The police brought strong coffee and blankets for the rest of us. After I gave a quick recap to D. S. Templeton, she allowed the bus driver to take us back to the pub at Lydney while she called for reinforcements.
If good news travels fast, bad news travels at the speed of sound. By the time we were settled back at the pub, the media had descended on the small town, and we were pressed for interviews. Most of us had had enough and just wanted a quiet place to recover. Irma looked at the attention as if she were the queen of England. She primped and wiggled and flirted with the reporters. When asked, “What was your role in solving this murder?” she smiled and said, “Well, it was my handcuffs the killer used to confine the driver.”
Nana Jo merely shook her head. “If I had the strength, I’d get up and smack her.”
When a reporter learned that I’d played a role in solving the murders and tried to interview me, I surprised my grandmother and my friends when I turned and faced the camera. “Actually, it was all Detective Sergeant Moira Templeton. She’s the real hero. She knew the killer had to be on the bus, and she stayed with us, protecting the innocent while she hunted down the killer.”
When I’d finished, the reporter tracked down D. S. Templeton to get the real story.
Templeton and I exchanged a brief glance before she was thrust into the limelight.
Nana Jo leaned over. “You laid it on pretty thick.”
I gave her the most innocent look I could muster. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Dorothy smiled. “You stopped just shy of inferring that D. S. Templeton was able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.”
I chuckled. “Well, I think she deserved some credit. She did find us on that cliff.”
“After we had already unmasked and disarmed the killers,” Nana Jo added.
I waved my hand. “Pishposh.”
D. I. Nelson arrived just as D. S. Templeton was in the middle of her interview, and his face grew as red as a beet.
Nana chuckled. “That sight alone was well worth letting D. S. Templeton take all of the credit.”
Hannah turned to me. “I understand how you figured out that Major Peabody was killed by the bee venom, but how did you know it wasn’t Clive Green?”
“Remember when Debra was having her hysterics?”
“Which time?” Ruby Mae asked.
“After they discovered that Major Peabody was really dead. She mentioned how Clive kept his bees even though he knew that her uncle was allergic.” I looked around. “Well, no one knew that Major Peabody was allergic to bees. When Dr. Blankenship diagnosed his death as digitalis, she was shocked. I wondered how she could be so sure and what difference it would make whether her uncle died from digitalis or not. That’s what kept bothering me.”
Nana Jo snapped her fingers. “She needed the death to be bee venom so she could frame Clive.”
“But why did it have to be Clive?”
“Because she needed Clive out of the way so she could gain control of the business. She said she was her uncle’s only heir and intended to sell the business, but she couldn’t be sure legally that Clive wouldn’t be able to stop her.”
Hannah said, “Just like she needed to get rid of poor Mrs. Habersham.”
“Exactly. Besides, there were several people who benefited from the death of Horace Peabody, but Debra Holt was the only person who benefited from the death of both of them.”
We talked a bit further, but eventually the police allowed us to go back to our hotel. We got up and headed outside.
Clive Green was waiting at the steps of the bus.
Nana Jo whispered, “Clive looks like he’s been through a few rounds with George Foreman.”
As we prepared to board, he hugged me. “Thank you,” he whispered. “If it wasn’t for you . . . I . . .”
I gave him a squeeze. “It was my pleasure.”
Everyone was worn out by the time the bus left, and we slept on the bus back to London. Unfortunately, sleep alluded me. Instead, I pulled out my notepad.
Lord William sat in his chair smoking and relayed the story he had heard earlier from Nigel Greyson.
Lady Elizabeth knitted. “So, it was Nigel that Mrs. McDuffie heard arguing with Captain Jessup the night he was killed?”
“He tried to tell him the truth, but . . .”
“Jessup didn’t believe him?” Lady Penelope asked.
“I suspect Captain Jessup knew the truth,” Lady Elizabeth said, “but he didn’t want Nigel ruining his chance to not only humiliate Victor but also get his hands on the title.”
“But,” Lady Clara said, “how could he possibly think he would be able to prove something that wasn’t true?”
Lady Elizabeth gave Victor a quick glance and smiled. “I suspect he was counting on Victor being an honorable man. He knew Victor wouldn’t want the title if he thought it didn’t belong to him, and he gambled on the fact that Victor wouldn’t fight him.”
Victor stared from Lady Elizabeth to his wife. “I wouldn’t have fought him. I never cared about the money or the title. I just never imagined he would lie.”
Lady Elizabeth smiled. “That’s because you’re a good man.”
Lord William puffed on his pipe. “That’s not all. It turns out Jessup had another secret.” He looked around. “This one’s worse than trying to cheat Victor out of his title.”
“Oh dear.” Lady Penelope took out a handkerchief. “What else could possibly be worse?”
Lord William braced himself. “During the war, Nigel was involved in British intelligence. I can’t talk about the details, but let’s just say he had access to a lot of important documents. One of the documents he got his hands on was related to Jessup. At the time, he didn’t know that Jessup was his son, mind you.” Lord William bit on the stem of his pipe. “But he recognized his face.”
“That must be why he asked if they’d met before the night of the party,” Lady Clara said.
Lord William smiled at his cousin. “That’s it. He recognized him, but he couldn’t place him. It wasn’t until later, much later, that he went back to London and . . . learned that Jessup, his son, was a traitor.”
Lady Penelope gasped.
Victor was thrown for a loop and sat down and stared. “A traitor?”
“There was a horrible battle at Passchendaele.” Lord William removed his pipe, and tobacco leaves scattered over his suit and onto the floor. “That’s in Belgium. Jessup was in charge of a regiment, but when the battle took a turn for the worse, Jessup deserted his men.”
“How is that possible?” Victor pounded his fist into his hand. “He should have been court-martialed.”
“Most of the regiment was killed. There were rumors that they may have been betrayed, but there wasn’t enough proof.” Lord William paused a few moments. “It’s believed only a few men survived, and . . . well, they were never the same afterward.”
Thompkins had been standing silently near the wall. At this point, he coughed discreetly.
Lady Elizabeth turned to face the butler. “Yes, Thompkins?”
“I believe I know one of the survivors.”
Everyone turned to stare.
For probably the first time since she’d met the butler, Thompkins seemed ruffled. He took a few deep breaths. “One of the few survivors at Passchendaele was a young private . . . Hyrum McTavish.”
Lady Elizabeth nodded. “I suspected as much. How did you find out?”
“He told me himself.” Thompkins gave her a hard stare. “He recognized Jessup immediately. I think when he saw him again, standing in the kitchen downstairs . . . something snapped.”
“I can understand why,” Lady Penelope whispered. “That’s horrible.”
Detective Inspector Covington asked Lady Elizabeth, “How did you guess?”
&nb
sp; “You found ladder marks on the ground, but no ladder.” She continued knitting. “I live here, but I doubt that even I would know where to find a ladder, let alone know where to put it back. It would have to be one of the servants. Thompkins told us about the encounter between McTavish and Captain Jessup, and more importantly, Jessup’s reaction to McTavish.” She paused. “Plus, there was the fact that the coroner found bee venom. The groundskeeper would know where to find bees at this time of year. He must have put some in the room. He wasn’t aware of the captain’s heart condition, but when he saw the digitalis . . . he must have gotten the idea he could make the death look like a heart attack.” She sighed. “I’m terribly sorry for him and poor Frank.”
Detective Inspector Covington stared at her for several moments, but then turned to Thompkins. “You’d better take me to him.”
Lady Clara said, “Peter, you can’t take him. He was driven to it. Can’t you see? Jessup deserved exactly what he got. He was a horri- ble man.”
“I have to take him in.” He looked at Lady Clara and said softly, “It’s my job, Lady Clara.”
Lady Elizabeth accompanied Thompkins and the detective out to the groundskeeper’s cottage.
Inside, she found Frank McTavish standing near the fireplace. His face was streaked with tears. He handed Lady Elizabeth a handwritten note.
She read the note and then passed it to Detective Inspector Covington, who read it.
Frank McTavish sobbed. “He confessed. Took his ladder and snuck into the room. Then he took some bees and put them in the room. The sergeant he knew in the war was allergic to bee venom.” He sniffed. “But he couldn’t live with what he’d done. So, he . . .” He sobbed uncontrollably.
Lady Elizabeth reached out her arms and pulled the young man into an embrace. He sobbed on her shoulder.
Detective Inspector Covington removed his hat and walked out.
Later, Lady Clara was waiting alone in the library. Detective Inspector Covington entered. The two gazed at each other, but there was something between them.
“So, he killed himself?”
He nodded.
“Poor Frank.” She turned to the detective. “Does anyone have to know?”
“What do you mean?”
“McTavish was Catholic. If he killed himself, that’s considered a mortal sin, and he can’t be buried in the churchyard.”
“But—”
“I know you’re a policeman and you have a duty to perform, but he’s dead now.”
“But—”
“Doesn’t poor Frank deserve some justice? He deserves to have his father buried properly alongside his mum.”
“Listen, I just want—”
“What justice can be served by telling the world that McTavish killed himself? Can’t you just—”
Peter Covington grabbed her and pulled her to him and kissed her. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him back. After a few moments, he pushed away. “I’m sorry.”
She raised a fist and shook it at him. “If you apologize one more time for kissing me, I’m going to hit you.”
He smiled. “I’m sorr—”
She punched him in the arm.
“Ouch.”
“I warned you.” She glared. “Now, why did you stop me?”
“I just wanted to tell you that I agree. No one needs to know that Hyrum McTavish killed himself. As far as the police are concerned.”
Her face lit up. “Really?”
He nodded.
She flung herself in his arms and kissed him hard. When she came up for air, she smiled and said, “I’m not the least bit sorry for that, either.”
The detective pulled her close and kissed her slowly. “Neither am I.”
Chapter 25
When the bus finally pulled up to the front of the hotel, it was dark. Everyone filed off and headed toward the elevators. The last evening of the trip featured a visit to the theatre. Everyone hurried to their rooms to get changed.
I was dead tired and probably would have skipped the theatre were it not for a chance to cap off my British adventure by seeing Agatha Christie’s highly successful play, The Mousetrap. Even though I’d seen the play before, I went. It was great, and I enjoyed it more than the previous time I’d seen it, probably because this time I was seeing it in her native England. We arrived back from the theatre and were stopped by the hotel manager.
He spotted us and hurried around the counter. “I have some good news for you.”
“I could use some good news,” Nana Jo said. “What is it?”
He flung his hand around to indicate a pile of luggage. “The airline finally found your lost luggage.”
We stared at the luggage stacked up next to the counter.
“I will have the bellmen take it up to your rooms.”
“Don’t bother,” Nana Jo said. “They’ll just need to bring it back down in a few hours anyway.”
The manager looked confused. “What would you like me to do with it?”
“Tell the airlines to take these bags and shove them up their a—”
“Irma!”
She broke into a coughing fit.
I glanced at one of the tags. “Bangladesh?”
“Looks like our luggage has traveled more than we did,” Nana Jo said. She went to catch the elevator, and when the doors opened, she said, “You coming?”
“I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
Nana Jo nodded and went upstairs with the girls.
I sat in the lobby of the hotel and thought about the trip. England had been exciting, dangerous, frustrating, and educational. I leaned back in the alcove where I’d sat many nights before. I had visited the native ground of one of my literary heroes, Dame Agatha Christie. I walked through her home and visited some of the same places where she was inspired to write so many amazing mysteries. I hoped that one day I could attain a fraction of her success. England was a wonderful place, but I was happy to be going home to my poodles and my bookshop, where all my British murders were contained in the pages of my books.
